


The songs and smells I made myself forget

by Kyriadamorte



Series: If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dealing with, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hanukkah, Jews In Space, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Star Wars: The Last Jedi Spoilers, Triggers aren't always what you think they'll be, but enough that you'll want to wait to read it, even if the word isn't used, i literally cannot be clearer that i'm talking about judaism, not a lot b/c it's AU, once again food is a thing, space hannukah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 21:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13040178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyriadamorte/pseuds/Kyriadamorte
Summary: Kylo hasn't celebrated Lamandaar in years, but the smell of a holiday treat from Alderaan sends him into a downward spiral.Luckily, Rey is there to help him light candles in the darkness.For sylviasnow89





	The songs and smells I made myself forget

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: There will be some spoilers for TLJ in this.

**Secret Santa**

 

It starts with the smell of cinnamon and winter moon-peaches.

 

The space station they’ve landed on is dark and dingy.Antiquated life-support systems whir and rumble around them.There’s a faint, but pervasive smell of booze and urine everywhere they go.In the corner, a bald man with a ring through his left nostril is selling death sticks to a girl who cannot be more than thirteen years old.

 

It’s times like this that the First Order’s rhetoric is hardest to shake.

 

_Disorder, disorder, disorder.They need a firm hand to wipe out this depravity._

 

Kylo forces himself to look away.Perhaps they do need a firm hand, but it won’t be his.He’s proven over and over again he can’t be trusted with those types of decisions.To center himself, as is so often the case, he turns his attention to Rey.She’s laying into the shop keeper, poking him in the chest with a furious finger.From what he can tell from the string of rapid Huttese, he’d been trying to sell them parts for about three times what they’re worth.

 

He’s in the middle of admiring the way she flushes when she’s worked up when he smells it.

 

_Fredanan._

 

All of a sudden, he’s eight years old again and watching the butter melt slowly in the pan while his mother chops beside him.She swears as she slices her finger.His father swoops in and presses her finger to his lips and-

 

“Are you done yet?” he snaps at Rey, who shoots him a _look_ over her shoulder.She opens her mouth to berate him, to tell him how spoiled he’s being, how-

 

He doesn’t care.

 

Rey shoves some credits at the shop-keeper (probably more than she wanted to) and all but runs after him, parts clanking noisily in her dingy little bag.

 

He stomps by the tiny kiosk bedecked in Alderaan insignia, lengthening his stride so Rey has to practically jog to keep up with him.He most assuredly does _not_ look at the trio of little girls whose hair is each done up in a different set of elaborate braids.

 

Rey narrows her eyes and peers at him as he more-or-less punches the controls to close the door.He feels the questions forming at the back of her head.He can’t bear to hear her ask them (not when he knows he’d respond).

 

He locks himself in the bathroom and, _fuck,_ if that doesn’t make him feel thirteen.He grips the sink and tries not to be ill.When he feels it might be safe, he looks up and catches himself in the mirror. _Mistake._

 

Even with the hair, he always did look far too much like Han Solo.

 

He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the cold glass.He won’t kid himself and pretend he’s meditating.Not really.

 

He breathes, though.Counts the breaths.

 

“Kylo?”

 

It’s fifty-seven breaths before he hears her footsteps shuffle away.

 

_Just breathe._

 

~

 

He’s in a black mood for the rest of the evening.

 

He deliberately chooses Rey’s least favorite flavor of ration packet and crushes a truly absurd amount of garlic into it. Something petty and nasty in him is soothed by the way she nearly gags at the overwhelming taste, her tastebuds still unaccustomed to anything more than a moderate amount of flavor.

 

He ignores her questions and snaps out rude responses in turn as she tries to gently pull the truth out of him.He knows she’s being kind, knows she could just ask him outright (knows she could just _look)._ He hates it.Her concern and her gentleness and her…manners about the whole thing grate on him like sandpaper.

 

“I know you were raised by drunks,” he says, hating himself and his words even as they leave his mouth, “but do you think you could try to be a little neater about how you eat?”

 

“What is wrong with you?” she snaps, slamming her spoon down on the table.

 

As if there isn’t practically an official list from which she could pick and choose.

 

“Maybe I’m just tired of being stuck in this piece of junk with a garbage rat.”

 

She screws up her face and opens her mouth to shout and the air prickles with her anger leaking into the Force-

 

_Yes._

 

This is exactly what he needs right now.It’s too dangerous to use their sabers (the electronics in this ship are far less replaceable than those on the Finalizer), but there’s still the hope that she’ll use her fists and her feet and her nails and her teeth.She stalks her way towards him, puffing herself up like a predator.It should look silly, considering how much shorter than him she is, but it doesn’t.Not the first time and certainly not now that he’s gone toe to toe with her as often as he has.

 

She’s going to come at him from his left.She’s wavering between trying to sweep his legs out from underneath him or punching him in the gut.She’s going to punch him full in the face and-

 

And then, abruptly, it fizzles out.

 

She walks closer to him and puts out her hand.It’s like that first time, all those weeks ago, when his hand had touched another’s skin in for the first time in years and she was all aglow before him, the personification of fierce gentleness-

 

He takes her hand much more quickly this time.Her fingers slide into his and the anger he’s been clinging to all day rushes out of him, leaving him hollow and empty.For a while, they just stand like that, letting their breaths become one, their pulses become one.

 

“Something happened, back at that outpost,” she says, softly.It isn’t a question.

 

Still, he wishes he had an answer that wasn’t pathetic.He can’t even fucking look at her.

 

She gives his fingers a slight squeeze.

 

“They were making _fredanan,”_ he says, still staring at the floor.It sounds even stupider now that the’s said it than it did in his head.

 

“And you…don’t like it?” she asks.He can feel her actively _not_ looking, despite her curiosity.Perhaps she realizes this is something he has to _say._

 

_(Say it.Go on, say it.)_

 

“No, no - I like it.Well, sort of…” he trails off.This is getting away from the point.

 

He takes a breath, “It’s a special dish that we - people from Alderaan - only really make for a holiday. _Lamandaar_ , it means - more of less - the Nights of Light.It used to just be a winter holiday.One of many, as a matter of fact.Wasn’t even one that everyone-“He’s rambling.“Anyway.When Alderaan was, well.You know.”

 

She nods.Of course she does.Not even Jakku was far enough away to avoid hearing the lingering horror stories of a planet that was destroyed in a matter of seconds.

 

_(-Red light streaks across the sky before him.Trillions upon trillions of lives blink out before him.Around him and inside him there is terror, shock and screamingscreamscreaming-)_

 

Not the time.

 

“Well, it was the fourth Night of _Lamandaar_. Right in the middle. People started conflating the two - even people who never celebrated it before.Now, for those who are left, it’s our-“ He stumbles a bit at the word. “our biggest holiday of the year.”

 

He chances a glance at her face.Her eyes meet his and there’s no trace of the anger from earlier.

 

“My mother was horrible at cooking.”

 

She cocks her head slightly at the non-sequitur.

 

“She only got it right once.The year before I left for-The year before I left.”

 

His gaze drops back to the floor.He can’t look at her for this part, even though her thumb is still running a reassuring trail back and forth on the back of his hand.

 

“I liked it because of the food - even though my mother’s was usually burned.And it was one of the few days that both of my parents were almost definitely going to be home.But I didn’t understand it, at the time.I didn’t really understand why we were celebrating their death.I didn’t understand how they could just let themselves be destroyed like that.They had no military, not really.I remember thinking that maybe if they’d just been more powerful they wouldn’t have been-“He cuts himself off.“But the biggest army in the galaxy wouldn’t have been able to save them.”

 

A breath.“I thought it was stupid.I went through the motions because my parents told me to and because party part was fun, but-“

 

His throat feels tight.He can’t.It’s stupid; it’s so fucking childish and _stupid_ and he’s already said too much.He breathes in through his nose again and again as the silence drags out.

 

“We didn’t celebrate anything.”

 

Her voice is a whisper, but she immediately has his full attention.He forces himself to look at her.

 

“I didn’t-“ she breaks off, voice cracking.He gives her hand a squeeze; it seems like the right thing to do.

 

“I didn’t even know when my birthday was.Still don’t.”Her breath has gone shaky and he hates himself even more for whining about a holiday he never even really liked and breaking down over a dessert like a fucking child.

 

“If I had had something like that to lose though,” she continues, her voice stronger now, “I think the reminder of its loss would have been very…would have been quite difficult.”

 

Her eyes finally meet his, glistening with tears.She gives his hand one last squeeze before turning to clean up her dishes, his words from before seemingly forgotten.

 

As always, she is far more understanding than he deserves.

 

~

 

She comes to his bed that night.She pulls him to her, lets him wrap his arms around her and nuzzle his head against her sternum, even though he _knows_ it makes her feel caged-in.He doesn’t cry, but it’s close.

 

“Ben,” she says and the word hurts and soothes all at once.He’s missed it and he loves it, but he hates it, but he’s curled up against her like an over-grown child so he doesn’t argue the point.

 

“Ben,” she says again, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Tell me about _Lamandaar_.”

 

Her voice is gentle, barely more than a whisper, but there’s kyber beneath it. 

 

As usual, he obeys without thinking. 

 

His voice is muffled against the fabric of her nightshirt, but he knows she hears him all the same.He tells her of candles and singing.He tells her of scripture and family stories.He tells her of games and dancing and laughter.He tells her of dimmed lights and hushed silences.

 

He even tells her a thing or two about his mother. 

 

He listens to her heartbeat and she strokes his hair until he falls asleep.

 

~

 

She avoids him most of the next day.He tries not to read too much into it, but a voice that sounds far too much like _his_ whispers that it’s his fault, that he read her wrong, that he misunderstood.What sort of grown man cries over a stupid holiday?What sort of heartless, hypocritical piece of shit-

 

He stops dead in the doorway when he sees her.She’s standing in the middle of the room, fidgeting slightly with nervous energy, hands and cheeks and nose covered in grease.And in her hands-

 

She’s made him a _haronem_.Rusty wires and valves and tiny pipes have all been welded together to create a tiny, spiraling (if somewhat lop-sided) candelabra.The candles she’s bought are the cheap variety that are a greenish-grey color and smell slightly of animal fat.Eight-year-old him would have hated it.Eight-weeks-ago him would have hated it even more.

 

Kylo thinks he might cry.

 

“I- We don’t have to do anything.I just thought- Well, it would be good to have one on hand, if you wanted to.”

 

He walks up to her slowly and takes it from her, hold his breath the whole time.He doesn’t know if he’s ever handled anything more gently.

 

“I don’t even know which day it is,” he admits, thumbing the outer candle-holders.“We have special clocks to help us keep the old Alderaan calendar.I don’t have one with me.”

 

“Choose one, then,” she says, like it’s just that simple.

 

Maybe it is.

 

“The first day,” he says, after a moment of contemplation.

 

He knows it can’t be - not if they were already baking _fredanan._ He doesn’t care (not enough, anyway).

 

He puts the ridiculous, wonderful little thing on the table while Rey goes to dim the lights.

 

After some fumbling, Kylo lights the central candle.He’s sure the whole thing lacks the proper gravitas.He doesn’t have robes or cowls or even his old necklace with the simple six-sided star. 

 

He has nothing but himself. 

 

It will have to do.

 

( _But how can it?)_

 

Kylo starts to sing.His voice has changed a lot since the last time he sang these songs so he has to restart a couple of times before he can find a key that works.He stumbles a few times over the foreign words that he had learned by wrote memorization, but he makes it to the end.

 

“That was beautiful,” she says, giving him a small smile.

 

She’s being sincere, but he still blushes and looks away, unsure (as always) what to do with the praise.He feels her hand on his cheek and then she turns his face to hers.When they kiss, he notices the garlic from earlier and lets out a laugh that’s embarrassingly close to a snort.She senses his amusement and its source and pulls away, placing her hands on either side of his face to hold his head still while she breathes out right into his nose.

 

Gross and ridiculous.

 

( _He loves it.)_

 

~

 

The next morning he wakes to her humming in the shower.Hearing the hymns of his childhood (or at least the melody - she hasn’t quite mastered the lyrics yet) in her voice is….Well.

 

He smiles into the pillow.

 

As he goes about his day, he’s filled with an absurd excitement for nightfall (or what their calling nightfall, anyway).She bullies him into telling her about some of the games he used to play and she wastes quite a lot of time carving him a top that always seems to land on the same side.She spins it again and again and he has to confiscate it before the noise drives him insane.

 

She laughs as he pockets it, though, so he knows all is forgiven.

 

~

 

That night, she joins him when he starts to sing.Just a single droning note held in harmony against his melody.He cannot help but smile as he lights the second candle.

 

He thinks, if they live to see the next year, he might try to make _fredanan._  

 

Perhaps the smell would be different if she helped him make it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I am planning to continue playing in this verse. I do have a couple of ideas about how I'm going to make it work with TLJ while changing as few things as possible. Oddly enough, aside from the obvious, the biggest thing I'm going to have to address is her calling him Kylo instead of Ben (I touched a bit on it here, but I plan on fleshing it out). So, at some point, there WILL be a bridge/here-is-where-we-diverge-from-canon fic that will take place before Soup and Spices.
> 
> Kudos to anyone who picked out that the word I came up with for menorah is literally just menorah backwards because it sounds cool and I really want to hit people over the head with the "THIS IS ABOUT HANUKKAH" message.


End file.
